


A House Divided

by Chickenpets



Series: Pacify Interludes and AUs [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Art, Blood Magic, Descent into Madness, Gore, Happy Halloween, M/M, Mania, Necromancy, Obsession, Pacify AU, Past Character Death, Revenge, Runes, Sacrifice, Self-Mutilation, True Love, Violence, but for magic reasons, wormtail has a bad time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:07:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27317506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chickenpets/pseuds/Chickenpets
Summary: Everyone was pretty sure Professor Snape had lost his mind.***OR: What might have happened if Harry had died that Christmas. Diverges at P2:8
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Series: Pacify Interludes and AUs [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1786204
Comments: 74
Kudos: 206





	A House Divided

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EmpressRegnant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmpressRegnant/gifts), [aldergroves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldergroves/gifts).



> Based on the following prompts from buds on the Pacify Discord:  
> A Pacify Halloween Special!
> 
> "Pacify AU Halloween idea based on Severus calling Harry a 'mad creature'...two words: Frankenstein crossover."
> 
> "Harry succeeds in overdosing on Dreamless Sleep, Snape straight-up frankensteins him back."
> 
> "And then Severus proceeds to mad-scientist himself crazy."
> 
> I diverged a bit... but thanks to TheEmpressRegnant and Aldergroves for this sweet idea!
> 
> Cover art by Mousewrites, bonus art by me!

Everyone was pretty sure Professor Snape had lost his mind, and that it had happened sometime over Christmas Hols. It was obvious, really, because he’d been pretty normal at the end of term, and then he’d come back… mad. The only question was, what had done it? 

It could have been anything, really. Anything at all. Everyone over third year knew Professor Snape got up to mysterious things outside of school. Dark magic, secret meetings, and who knew what else. He was evil, they were all sure. But that begged its own question: Professor Snape had gone mad over Christmas Hols, and Harry Potter had died over Christmas Hols. But Professor Snape had hated Harry, and everyone knew it. Why should he care that Harry was dead?

 _‘Maybe he did it,’_ the older students whispered. _‘Maybe Professor Snape is a murderer.’_

But, no. That was insane. Why would Dumbledore allow him to stay if he was a murderer? Dumbledore knew everything. That was just a stupid rumor. Stupid.

It was probably something else. A head injury, or a poisoning. Maybe Professor Snape had addled his brains in a freak potions accident.

No one knew.

All anyone knew was that Professor Snape did not speak anymore. He sort of muttered to himself, that was true, but he never _spoke._ He set his defense classes to writing a new essay every two days by posting the subject on the board, and when people had questions, he did not answer them. He ignored their raised hands, and their passed notes, and he ignored their tardiness and whispering. And that was scary. It was almost like he’d been kissed by a Dementor or something, and the students of Hogwarts did not know what to do, so they wrote their essays. Essays on things like the unforgivable curses, and inferi, and death, and the human soul. Essays on vampires and ghosts and the use of grave dirt in potioneering. 

And that was Potions, they tried to say, but he did not answer, and so they wrote their essays.

The sixth years in particular gave Professor Snape the least amount of trouble, for in sixth year Defense Against the Dark Arts, there was a void as huge as the night sky. Right between Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley there was an empty seat, and they left it empty. A chair nearly glowing with its impossible vacancy. 

It was the most terrible empty space in all of history, and Ronald Weasley, unlike his classmates, was not afraid of Professor Snape. He was not afraid, and he did not write the essays. He just sat there in silence and stared. Stared at Professor Snape as he scratched out reams of parchment at the head of the class and… muttered. 

Ronald Weasley, staring, and thinking, _‘you killed him, you bastard. You killed Harry. You killed him.’_

But what Ron did not know was that Severus Snape was thinking the very same thing, though where Ron’s circular thoughts always ended at the same peak of furious grief - _‘you killed Harry, and I’ll kill you’ -_ Severus’ thoughts ended somewhere quite different:

_I killed him._

_I killed him._

_I killed him._

_And I’m going to fix it._

And there was something else Ron didn’t know, too. Something Dumbledore didn’t know, and McGonagall didn't know, and the Dark Lord didn’t know.

Only Severus Snape knew it, because Severus Snape had not gone to Harry’s funeral to weep with the others. He’d drunk himself sick holed up in Cokeworth, and there, vomiting his grief and guilt into the toilet, he’d had an idea. It had pierced through the spins like an arrow. Pierced through the nausea and tears, fully formed. Fierce, and clear, and sudden, striking straight into his brain. And once he’d had it, he’d rinsed out his mouth, gone to Godric’s Hollow, and taken the body.

For there was no way on God’s green earth that Severus could tolerate the thought of Harry alone down there in the dirt. Alone for ever in the dark and the cold, because Severus had tried to give him a gift. Severus had tried to help him by giving him the doses of Dreamless Sleep, and Severus had tried to love him by giving him the book of Lily’s letters, but it hadn’t worked, and now Harry was alone, in a box, beside the bones of his parents.

Well, he had been.

Not now, though.

Now Harry was not alone, and he was not in a box, and he was nowhere near Lily and James. He was on Severus’ bed in the Dungeons under a stasis charm, preserved just the way he’d looked when Severus had burst into the little attic bedroom in the Burrow on Christmas day and tried to revive him. Tried, and tried, and tried to revive him. And… failed. 

He’d failed.

But he was not going to fail again. He was going to fix it. He was. And if his students insisted on appearing in his classes week after week, that was not his concern. His only concern was Harry. And unforgivable curses, and inferi, and vampires, and Nicholas Flamel, and experimental charms. Blood magic, and faith, and sacrifice. Immortality, and the ancient gods. Evil, and good, and love, and Horcruxes, and what, _specifically,_ made a person themselves. 

What was it, exactly, that had left Harry that night?

And where, precisely, had it gone?

Severus brushed a lock of hair back from Harry’s cool forehead and stroked his thumb over his scar. If not for the blue cast to his lips, he might have been sleeping. Napping, the way he so often had when the school year began. Dressed in flannel trousers and a pullover, and draped in a blanket. 

Severus had changed him into those clothes the moment he’d managed to secret him into the castle, knowing that Harry did not care for formal robes. Harry did not like tradition, or high collars. Harry liked flannel, and fleece, and thick socks, and quilts and jumpers and layers, but no matter how Severus bundled him up, or how warm he kept his rooms, Harry was always cold.

Harry was cold under his palms as Severus tried to rub heat into his hands and feet, and cold next to him at night when he laid down to sleep.

Harry was cold.

And Severus was cold, too. 

And Severus did not sleep. 

***

“Good day,” Albus said from the doorway, and Severus hunched his shoulders protectively over his parchment, focusing on the scratching of his quill.

_Heat,_ he thought. _Vital energy. Spark. Blood. Metabolism._

“How are you faring? I haven’t seen much of you lately.”

Severus did not answer, and he did not look up. 

_Human soul,_ he thought. _Sacrifice. The soul anchors to the body, or to the charmed object. The soul cannot be destroyed. The soul is eternal, and cannot be destroyed. It flees, it is not destroyed._

“Minerva has informed me that you are not taking meals.”

Footsteps, moving further into the room.

_Plato teaches that the soul has three houses. Logos - located in the head. Reason, thought, and intelligence._

“Severus?”

_Thymos, in the chest. Anger, emotion, fear. And Eros in the belly. Desire. Love._

_Eros. Love. The human soul. Eternal._

_An anchor._

A hand rested on his shoulder and he jumped. 

“WHAT?” he barked, and Albus pulled his hand back, startled. “I have a class, Albus. What is it?” 

Dumbledore’s eyes searched his face, his forehead crinkling in concern.

“It’s past midnight,” he said. “You do not have a class.”

“Midnight?” Severus looked around. The windows were dark, and his hands were splattered with ink. “Midnight?” He leapt to his feet, knocking his chair over backwards. “I - I have to go. I’ll be missed.”

“Missed? Severus?” Albus caught his wrist, and Severus jerked it away. No one touched him. No one ever _touched him,_ and Albus’ hand was _warm._

His skin crawled with disgust and he staggered back. No one should be _warm._ No one. That wasn’t how things were anymore. That wasn’t _allowed._

“I haven’t been sleeping well,” he said, wiping his palm on his robes. “I should retire to my rooms. I’ve - lost track of time. Research, you know. For - the war.”

Albus frowned at him. “Severus,” he said. “Poppy will be expecting you tomorrow during lunch, and I must insist you make time for the visit. I can’t have you in the field this w-”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Severus interrupted, shaking his head, nodding, blinking back his fatigue. _Past midnight._ “Of course, Headmaster. Yes. Poppy.” He gathered an armful of loose parchment, and left the room. “Poppy,” he repeated. “Hospital wing. Medicine, yes. Do no harm. First, no harm.” A rolled sheaf of paper slipped from his hands as he paced down the hallway, muttering, but he paid no mind. There were a lot of scrolls, and nothing, so far, had been fruitful. “Logos. Thymos. Eros. Eros is located in the belly. The source of… desire. Son of the titan Chronos, he strikes without warning. Chronos, meaning time. Time…”

Albus stooped to pick up the scroll with his blackened hand as Severus’ voice faded, and carefully unfurled it. It was thick with cramped, spidery writing - crammed with diagrams and lists - and was… absolutely incomprehensible. 

He looked up at the empty door, wondering.

Severus did not make his appointment. 

***

Sometimes Severus brought flowers to the Dungeons. It wasn’t what he wanted to bring to Harry, of course, but some days the endless failure was just too much, and he needed something else to offer. Something beautiful and alive - if temporarily - to sit at Harry’s bedside while he wrestled with the constant dead-ends. Something _real_ to present as he realized over the passing weeks that every philosophy was false. Every religion, wrong. Every scholar a fool, a degenerate, an incompetent, wrong. WRONG. The restricted section had nothing to offer him, and the books he stole from Albus’ office could only tell him how to maim a soul, not how to restore one, and the complex brews that had him gutting all manner of animals under three subsequent full moons did nothing at all. 

So he brought flowers. Carnations, sometimes, and sometimes chrysanthemums. Gardenias and hyacinths and primrose. Whatever he could find, and whatever he could coax into existence. Roses. Daisies. Orchids. 

Sometimes at night while he lay awake with his trembling fingers curled around Harry’s stiff ones, he wondered if he might be able to find something rare. Something Harry had never seen before. A bird of paradise, or a protea. A cereus. Yes. Something tropical, or uncommonly arid. Special, and - 

“Severus?”

He twitched. “Yes, my Lord?”

“I would appreciate your attention. The boy’s death did not end the war.”

Severus looked up and into the Dark Lord’s snake-like face, wondering how his heart dared beat. Wondering how he dared stare back at Severus that way with _moving eyes,_ when Harry had reflected a killing curse right into his face. 

Sitting there at the table. Breathing. Speaking. Demanding his _attention._

How did he dare?

Severus bowed his head. “Of course, my Lord,” he said. “Forgive my optimism. I get ahead of myself.” 

Across from him, Peter Pettigrew shifted and snorted in derision, and at the sound a little trickle of insight dripped into Severus’ mind. Just a little bit.

The Dark Lord _had_ died. The Dark Lord had fled his body. Left it empty. But he’d… recovered it. 

_Bone of the father,_ he thought. _Father. Servant. Enemy._

Wormtail’s knife in Harry’s arm. Cutting him open to steal his blood. 

The fiend that had dared take a knife to Harry's body was sitting right there. The fool that had stuck a dagger _inside him._ Under his skin.

He was right there, snickering.

But Severus did not look at him. 

Yet. 

***

He already had the book. It was a miracle, and Severus told it to Harry while he dressed. Slacks, button down, waistcoat and cloak. Boots, gloves, disillusionment charm. He had the book. He had _every book._ He just… hadn’t realized what he had to do. But it was so simple. So, so simple. He should have known, really.

He should have known.

_Mother, father, servant, enemy. The betrayer, the devoted._

_Sacrifice._

_Anchor._

_Enough to share._

“Tonight,” he whispered, leaning over to kiss Harry’s forehead. Smooth, and cool, like marble. Like the statue of a saint. “Tonight. It’s time. I love you.” He curled his fingers around a lock of his hair, and steeled himself. “Sharp pain, now. I’m sorry.” He tore the hair from Harry’s scalp. Quickly, decisively, like pulling off a bandage. And, of course, Harry did not move, though Severus soothed the spot. “That’s all. I’m sorry. I love you. Three hours.” 

He placed the hair carefully into a glass vial, pocketed it, and then strode out into the grounds. He walked purposefully, for he had a purpose. Finally, after all the long weeks, a purpose. 

***

“And what is it you called me for?” Pettigrew asked in his wheezy, revolting voice. He was wrapped in a cloak with the hood bunched around his shoulders, and that was rude of him. It would be harder to cut through. “I am not your servant. Where is the Dark Lord?”

“He does not waste his time with preliminaries, Wormtail,” Severus answered smoothly, fingering the knife in his pocket. Silver. Solid silver, and charged in the darkness of the last new moon. Like it said in the book. “As you well know. Come. We have only minutes.” He gestured Pettigrew forward, leading him deep into the little cemetery. Past the many graves of the ancient, legacy families interred there in Godric’s Hollow. Past generation after generation of the most venerated names. Potter, and Dumbledore, and Abbot, and Peverell. No Snape, though. No Prince, and no Pettigrew.

He did not look back at his companion once, but just listened for his unsure footsteps as he followed. Like a goat, tip-tip-tiptoeing to an altar. 

Severus was doing him a favor, really. Severus was allowing him to rest in that prestigious place, where his pedigree would never grant him entrance. A gift that he did not deserve.

He stopped walking and looked at the grave.

Harry James Potter

31/7/1980 - 25/12/1996

Hope Never Dies

_Hope never dies,_ he thought. 

“And what, exactly, are we doing?” Pettigrew asked, moving to stand beside him. “Why should our Master need anything from this worthless whelp? Didn’t even make it to the war.” He cackled and clapped Severus’ on the back with his magical hand. But that, at least, was not warm. “You did your work too well, Severus.”

“Indeed I did,” Severus answered, and seized Pettigrew by the hair. 

The spray of blood was rather more than he’d expected, splattering Harry’s gravestone, and Lily’s beside it, and he directed the gush onto the dirt with no small effort, holding Peter by the scalp as he gurgled and twitched, and as a disgusting pink froth dribbled from his mouth. 

_Blood,_ Severus thought. _Lifeblood from the betrayer of the ancestors. Stolen. Taken. Offered to the soil._

He hummed a little to himself as he felt the fracture deep in his belly, like the cracking of ice over a thawing lake. That was good. That was just what the book said would happen. A crack, and a sharp pain, and the cold.

Nothing to be worried about.

Severus dropped Pettigrew face-first onto the grave as the flow of blood slowed, braced one foot on his back, and hacked off his remaining natural hand, forcing the edge of his knife between the bones like a butcher jointing a leg of lamb. Then he flipped the corpse onto its back and took its eye. The left. Left eye.

He shrank both offerings down to fit in individual vials, and pocketed them.

“Intuition,” he murmured to himself, scooping up a clot of bloody dirt as well. “Left eye. Right hand. The betrayer. Aha.” He slit his palm open with the blade. “Left hand,” he said, and then turned the point on his face, carving an X below his eye. “Left hand, right eye. The devoted. _Gebo._ Gift. Sacrifice. Exchange.” He drizzled some of his blood onto Peter’s back, and over the grave. “The feet,” he murmured, and summoned the small bones from Harry’s parents’ graves into a fresh vial. “Left foot, father. Right foot, mother. We walk behind, and follow him into the dark. We do not allow him to go alone. Never.”

With a slash of his wand, the back of Pettigrew’s robes parted, leaving his doughy skin exposed to the night air, and Severus pressed his bloody left hand to his flesh like a wax stamp. It left a perfect handprint, and in the center of that handprint, he carved _berkana, othala, uruz,_ and _inguz._

 _The betrayer of two generations,_ he thought. And then he thought, _half. Half for me, and half for Harry. Left hand, right hand. Left eye, right eye. Left foot, right foot. Heart. The heart. You need the heart._

It was not easy cutting out someone’s heart from the back, but that was what had been in the book, so that was what he did. He hacked through the gristle and bone until he reached the pericardium, and then slit that open to reveal the steaming organ. It was fatty, and once it was dripping in his hand, he trimmed some of the excess off, not wanting to infuse anything inferior into this most critical of magics. 

Only the best for Harry. Only ever the best. Rare flowers. Warm bed. Not a fragment. Half. 

He hummed again - a tune from his childhood - as he shrank the heart down to size and stowed it, and then with his ingredients gathered, he transfigured Peter’s body into a stone, and sank it into the earth beneath Harry’s headstone. Let him rest in that empty grave forever. Taking Harry’s place, alone in the dirt. But no headstone. No epitaph. Let him be lost to the wind, and forgotten among his betters. 

Getting to his feet, he brushed off his hands, smearing the blood and soil into black mud, and then… he went home. He didn’t have much time to spare, after all. If he lagged behind, the broken piece would not hold. And it needed to hold. 

_Half,_ he thought. _Half for Harry, and half for me._

_Gebo, gift. Berkana, birth. Othala, inheritance. Uruz, gateway. Inguz, love-family-success._

_Success._

***

Into the cauldron went Harry’s lock of hair. Seventeen stirs, clockwise. And then Peter’s hand, and eye. Twelve stirs, counterclockwise. The soil, clumpy with blood. One stir. Just ONE! Clockwise. And then the little bones. So small. Like a bird. Twenty-two stirs, clockwise. Seven counterclockwise. 

The heart, next. But not quite yet. 

One more step. Critical. Don’t forget.

He reopened the slash on his palm with his fingernail and squeezed the heart over it, releasing a tacky glob of congealing blood onto the wound. And then, carefully cupping his hand to keep from spilling, he dropped the heart into the cauldron, triggering a column of rageful steam.

 _Ten seconds,_ he thought. _Pain for pain._

He thrust his curled hand into the heat, and did not scream.

Ten seconds. 

One. Two. Three. Four. _Five._ _Six. Seven. EIGHT. NINE. TEN._

He jerked his hand back, ignoring the blisters, and quickly, no time to waste, he stirred the blood and condensation together with his wand until it could be spread, and very carefully, he walked over to the bed, and pushed Harry’s sweater up to his ribs with his uninjured fingers.

 _“Gebo,”_ he muttered, drawing the shape on Harry’s white, cold skin. _“Berkana. Othila. Uruz. Inguz. Nauthiz._ Need. I need you. You can have half. I don’t use it all. Just part. Just half.” He touched his wand to his own stomach. “Just half.” 

There was a tearing sensation, and the room went black. No sight. No sound. Just the pain, like a freezing, splintered spear cast through the center of his body. 

_Eros,_ he thought, sinking to his knees beside the bed, his breath shallow and short against the dangling blankets. _Eros, located in the belly. Desire. Love. The seat of the soul. Half. Just half._

He didn’t need a whole one. He didn’t.

He just needed half.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Severus?”

  
  


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Nocte, pōnam iuxta tu . . . necromanticis peccātō](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29722167) by [ImpulseFunWritinAnon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpulseFunWritinAnon/pseuds/ImpulseFunWritinAnon)




End file.
